The gum trees are exactly as they sound: pink and shining. A bud sprouts from your arm. Roots form like crosswords below the sidewalk, carrying away men in suits like magnets by their loafers. No other news to report. The wallpaper drinks itself. Telephone poles erect themselves out of dust. And you: you’re accused of being an island so you buy a posh apartment in the city and fill it with sand. When you walk down the street it seems someone keeps drawing you smaller and smaller, a living thing among endless sculpture.